


Truth

by tangerine (arte)



Series: Amnesiac Hannibal Oneshots [5]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, Episode: s01e09 Trou Normand, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-15
Updated: 2016-01-15
Packaged: 2018-05-14 00:46:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5723242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arte/pseuds/tangerine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A man in a dark green jacket entered his office. He didn't barge in, but he didn't knock and wait for Hannibal's permission either. The rudness was enough to make one breifly entertain the notion of self-delivering snack.</p><p>The man said, "Abigail Hobbs killed Nick Boyle."</p><p>-</p><p>In which Hannibal deals with Will without three years of his memory.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Truth

Three years didn't seem like much, but it was enough time for a new type of phone to replace the old. It was slim and slick, with no buttons in sight, easy to tap someting wrong on the screen. 

Hannibal reined in his irritation, and patiently send out his messages to cancel appointments. He didn't make calls. He wasn't in the mood for arguments.

After the deed was done, he stretched his limbs, slightly mollified with a sense of accomplishment. Now, he could look forward to two weeks where he need not worry about his patients and focus on his own recovery.

His peace and quiet, however, didn't last for long. A man in a dark green jacket entered his office. He didn't barge in, but he didn't knock and wait for Hannibal's permission either. The rudness was enough to make one breifly entertain the notion of self-delivering snack, but Hannibal had to acknowledge that the man was mostly likely to be one of his patients. As a rule, he didn't kill his patients. Too much paper trail, not worth the risk.

The man stopped a few steps away from the door. He said, "Abigail Hobbs killed Nick Boyle." His voice was low, suppressed. He had his emotions coiled tightly around him, yet betrayal stood out like a sharp glint of spring poking through the mattress. 

Curious. The man's sense of betrayal seemed to be pointed toward Hannibal, but not in the usual way patients projected their issues on their psychiatrists. No, this was more personal, more delicate to deal with.

"I'm sorry. The news seems to have distressed you greatly," Hannibal said in a neutral tone. "However, I'm afraid I'm not in the position to offer you help at the moment. I believe I've sent you a text." 

The man frowned suspiciously, but reached for his phone. He read the apologises for abrupt cancellation and the offer of referrals and refunds, and sharply raised his head. Their eyes met, and the man's gaze bore into Hannibal's skull like a finely honed scalpel. Unprepared for the lurching feeling of being seen through, Hannibal stilled on the spot.

"You don't remember me," the man said.

"No."

"How much do you not remember?"

"Three years, give or take."

The man turned, letting out a bitter laugh. Digging the heels of his hands to his eyes, he muttered, "Of all the time for you to literally not know what you've done, Dr. Lecter."

"Why don't you walk me through what you suspect me to have done then?" Hannibal responded calmly. It would be extremely unwise to let the man with accusations to go and have the chance to confide his trouble elsewhere. 

The man looked at him incredulously. "Are you attempting therapy? Now?" 

"You seem to be in need of a listening ear. And I believe you won't be able to find someone with less preconceived notion of who you are at the moment than I am."

The man shook his head. "For once, I'm less concerned about who I am than who you are."

"Then perhaps you can help me understand how much I changed in three years."

"You don't seem to be the kind of man who changes much."

"All the more reason for me to find out if I did."

The man considered the proposition silently, then moved, claiming the armchair where Hannibal usually occupied, the phychiatrist's seat.

Amused at the audacity, Hannibal came to sit opposit him. 

"Now, you were talking about the death of Nick Boyle?" 

"About how he died, to be more exact." 

Hannibal steepled his fingers. "Who is Abigail Hobbs?" 

"I'm not sure anymore."

"She's close to you."

"I feel responsible for her," the man said. Almost accusingly he added, "So do you."

Hannibal asked, "How are the three of us linked together?"

"Through blood," the man gave a pained grimace of a smile. "Her father was a serial killer we were trying to catch. He slashed her throat. I shot him while you came in and kept her from bleeding out." 

The man's explanation was terse, succint, but it was enough to draw a beautiful outline of gurgling breath and pumping blood, the dance of life and death tangled tightly in one place. Hannibal saw, in the man's eyes, a faint touch of exhilaration under the weight of guilt, badly smudged like a stubborn pencil line defying to be erased. 

How had Hannibal managed to find him?

"A bond through a traumatic event," Hannibal remarked, containing himself. "Why did Abigail kill Nick Boyle?"

"Self-defence, most likely. Nick Boyle was another killer," the man rubbed his hands together. "She said she didn't kill him."

"Yet the evidence contradicted her statement."

"She hid the body," the man paused. In a softer voice he said, "She couldn't have done it alone."

"You think I helped her," Hannibal tilted his head. "You couldn't possibly have known that my memory was compromised. Why am I not being arrested?"

"Because," the man closed his eyes. "Because I was hoping I was wrong."

"I usually don't form strong enough attachment to help somebody hide the body," Hannibal offered carefully. "Was Abigail different?"

"We have a lot in common." 

_We,_ Hannibal liked the ring of that word.

"It seems that you're the one with the most facts," Hannibal commented, testing. "What shall be done about us?" 

"I'm not in the position to judge."

Hannibal kept his stare steady until the man raised his head. "Aren't you?"

The man's eyes were stormy, desperately searching for anchor. 

Hannibal found that it was exactly what he wished to be for the man.


End file.
